


in which the jokester weeps

by thebuttercupsareblind



Series: bingo prompt fills [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Beta Read, Trope: Crying Into Chest, i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 04:36:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18218294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebuttercupsareblind/pseuds/thebuttercupsareblind
Summary: You find out that John Egbert laughs when he cries just as much as he cries when he laughs.





	in which the jokester weeps

Your name is Dirk Strider, and your boyfriend didn’t show up to your date. It was nothing special, just a trip to some carapacian’s new restaurant, but, truth be told, you’re a little pissed. You waited outside for two hours. He didn’t respond to your messages. He didn’t show up. He completely blew you off. You’d even slicked back your hair, and worn a tuxedo (Roxy’s advice). 

You’re both new to the whole boyfriend thing, but come on. You’d organised it together. You don’t know where you went wrong. So now, you’re walking through the rain, hair plastered to the back of your head and neck, tuxedo thoroughly soaked. The streets are deserted, it’s dark out, and your only form of light are the streetlights and the houses harbouring residents that are still awake.

You’re lucky that you know the direct route to John’s house from here. 

When you reach the end of the street, where the darkness is thick and the silence is, somehow, louder than the rain, you tuck your shades into your tuxedo and take to the skies. You’re glad that it’s not windy. After all the shit this day’s thrown at you, having a battle with the wind would officially slide this fucker into one of your most disappointing days of Earth C. 

The rain does sting your eyes, but you’d rather be forced into squinting like this than being blind as a fucking bat with your shades. When the lights of the town fade, the night shows it’s true colours. Which is black, for the most part. Black clouds in the sky, black ground. Black shades, should you need them if you get lost. 

It’s fucking cold.

You spend the flight to John’s desperately warming your hands and wiping rain water from your face. Your hair is fucked. Unsalvageable. You make note to use some of John’s hair gel when you get there, if he lets you. 

“Thank fuck,” you breathe when the lights of John’s house come into view. He’s still awake. 

You stumble when you land, legs shuddering from the cold, and stagger up to John’s door. One knock, two knock, three. The rain smacks the roof, nothing but white noise while you wait.

He doesn’t answer.

“Dude, I know you’re awake, your lights are on,” you say, loudly. 

He doesn’t answer. 

“Did you forget?” 

He doesn’t answer.  
“Can I, at the very least, come in?” 

He doesn’t answer. You open the door anyway. 

You step in tentatively, and take a mental note to offer to clean the floors. You’re dripping like crazy.

“At least let me know what I did wrong.” If John isn’t in this house, you’re going to look very, very stupid.

You don’t check individual rooms. You don’t want to look like a creep. You stalk through the hallway, headed straight for the kitchen. If he’s not around here, then you’ll start checking rooms. You can’t hear anything other than your own watery footsteps, that’s for sure. 

John’s house has the kitchen and the living room close to eachother, with no wall to divide the two. You expect to find him watching television, or if he’s not there, then in his room, but you freeze when you walk into the kitchen and see him on a stool, crouched over the counter, his back towards you.

“Hey,” you say, and he startles. 

“Dirk! Sorry, hey.” He swings around, phone in hand, but there’s something off in his voice. 

You try to study his face. He seems normal enough. He’s adopted a light smile at the sight of you, and though his eyes bear dark rings, they’re nothing out of the ordinary, either. 

“You look fancy,” John chirps, “but why are you wet?” 

You shove your hands into soaking pockets. “I mean, I’m not one to talk, but I’m pretty sure that it’s basic etiquette not to ditch someone when you say you’re gonna meet up. Didn’t have a ride, because I figured Mother Nature wouldn’t be dumping water on my ass.”

He squints at you, confusion etched into his face. It’s an incredible face journey when he seems to remember what the fuck’s going on. “Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry, fuck.” 

You sigh. And you walk over to him. He looks guilty, and you go to put a hand on his shoulder, but quickly think better of it. You doubt John wants a wet, cold hand as some attempt at comfort. “If you didn’t want to hang out with me, you could’ve called. I was messaging you. Christ, I know I’ve been clingy, and I’m trying to work on that, but--” 

“What?” John interrupts you, more confused than when you had reminded him of the date. “It’s not you, Dirk. I, uh.” He spares a glance at his phone, then at you. “Dad died. Jane wasn’t around to revive him.”  
“Oh, shit?” The gravity of what he’s said doesn’t hit you until a second later. “Oh, shit.” 

John breathes in through his teeth. What the fuck do you even do, here? He’s your boyfriend, albeit of two weeks, but you don’t trust yourself enough to try at some comforting words. You sit on the stool next to him, ignoring the uncomfortable texture of your wet clothes. 

He stares at his phone, and you bite your lip.

“Are you okay?” Yeah, that works. 

John hums, typing something. “I mean, yeah. I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.” 

“Why’d you ask me if you were just gonna say that?” 

“I know enough to know that the death of a guardian is devastating, for the most part.” You add, “and I know you wanted to be close.” 

John pauses. “Yeah, but… I’m okay? I don’t really cry at these kinds of things. I’m used to all this.” 

“That doesn’t sound normal.” You’re being hypocritical. With some luck, John won’t point it out. 

“Well, I mean, SBURB made it normal!” He says. “Hmm. Then again, I didn’t really cry before SBURB? Jeez.”

You shift on the stool. You really do not know what to do in this situation. “You know it’s cool to be upset about this?”

“Yeah! Yeah, dude. Jane’s given this talk already.” He doesn’t seem annoyed. You could be very much wrong.

You inhale. “How do you feel. Right now.” 

Cue a raised eyebrow. “Ha, we all knew you were kinda like Rose, but you’re really stepping into Rose territory, dude!” 

“Yeah, but the answer’s awaiting a question regardless. I don’t wanna go straight up Rose and start psychoanalysing you.” 

“Ooh, is that a threat?” 

You give him a look which you hope is enough of a gesture for him to accurately answer the question. John raises a hand innocently.

“Okay, well I guess I feel kind of…” He thinks, for a second. “Empty? I mean, yeah, sure, I’m sad, I guess, but.” 

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t trail off. His gaze drops to the floor. You try to think of a way to prompt him to keep talking. Because that’s what boyfriends are supposed to do in these situations. Talk. (Right?)

Then he starts talking again.

“I guess, it’s just, wow, I’ve seen a lot of people die? And undie. I had to kiss Rose once to save her, and that was weird. Have you ever kissed someone that’s super dead like that?” Before you answer, he continues. “Oh, yeah, Jane. 

“And you know that feeling where you’re in a super deadly game and any of you can die, right? I was just kind of prepared for that stuff, I guess! But you were only in the game for a while.” Something in his voice changes. “We were in there for ages. And even on the Prospitan battle ship it was like, jeez, we don’t actually know if this is going to work? Anything could go wrong! And then…” 

“Then?” 

John backpedals. “You entered the game when you were sixteen.”

“Yes.” 

“And we entered the game when we were…” He pauses. Looks at you. Looks down. 

Then he laughs. It’s not the laugh that had drawn butterflies into your chest in the first year of being on Earth C. It’s something much, much different. It’s a laugh that’s wheezy and high and not at all happy. He slides his fingers under his glasses and covers his eyes, laughter shaking his body. 

You grimace. “... Thirteen?” 

“Thirteen!” John exclaims. “Jeez, we were thirteen, Dirk!”

“If there’s supposed to be something funny about this, it’s going straight over my head,” you deadpan. 

“Huh?” His laughing becomes quiet, but still shakes his body. “No, no, it’s not funny, dude.”

You have no fucking idea what the hell is going on with him, but you watch as his laughing goes soft. His shoulders slump and the corners of his lips start to curl downwards.

“It’s kinda fucked,” he says.

You’re tempted to reach out and grab his free hand, but is that really appropriate? You want to help, you really do, but you’re at a complete fucking loss. The legs of your stool squeak as you shuffle it closer to John, but you don’t dare touch him.

“It’s fucked,” he repeats, laughing coming to a complete stop. 

“I know,” you say, because you do.

“Wow,” he says. 

“My kinda-son is dead,” he says. 

“Yeah,” you say.

“Wow.” 

Then he sniffles. 

John Egbert starts crying. It’s not Ghibli tears; there’s nothing beautiful about the way John cries. His shoulders start to shudder and he tries to laugh, but there’s nothing to laugh at. He wipes at his nose and he looks down and lets his tears fall onto his shirt, his phone, the floor. He puts his phone on the counter. 

You put an arm on his shoulder. 

He hugs you. 

It’s not a full hug. At least, you don’t think so. He gets one hand around your torso and the other one grabs at your wet clothes and you don’t know if you should reciprocate and you put a hand on his head. Stroke his hair. Wait. You don’t know if you need to do anything else.

John doesn’t seem to mind.

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr is blindbuttercups where you can see my bingo card (requests would be appreciated on there bc i dont have much followers)


End file.
